


standing once more

by gael_itarille



Series: strength and vows [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Homesickness, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 22:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19327660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gael_itarille/pseuds/gael_itarille
Summary: Mithrandir has fallen. Legolas sources his strength to rise again.





	standing once more

**Author's Note:**

> A complete disregard for the cold relationship between Thranduil and Legolas in "The Hobbit". (With all-due respect to the cast and crew) Flashback scenes are in italics, and this fic is set after Gandalf dies at the hands of the Balrog. 
> 
> Enjoy! xx

Mithrandir's death feels shocking- the bitter sting of mortality slapped onto the weight of sorrow. Legolas has never seen such evil rise in his long life and has never seen Aragorn so catatonic, nor Gimli so robbed of his words. The four hobbits look utterly devastated- with Frodo's grief holding unfathomable strength. It almost sends fear up his spine. Mirkwood's prince can taste the air that flows from Moria- tainted with battle and the putrid scent of orcs and their oozing black blood. The absence. The absence is most disturbing- the elf cannot feel Gandalf's unshakable spirit and cannot smell the fragrance of tobacco that once clung to the wizard's robes. He's mildly aware of tears that carve paths into the small faces of halflings and his ears can still trace the black speech of the Ring, amplified by the overwhelming pain that threatens to wash their fellowship away, yet it is all overshadowed. Foreign terror rushes through his veins, coupled with the loss of more than one companion. Not for the first time on his perilous journey; Legolas misses his father. He has missed him every waking hour, but never has the longing felt so acute, so sharp that it threatens to send him sprinting on determined feet back to the halls of Mirkwood and the shelter of his Ada's arms. Alas, he cannot. The Greenleaf would not be able to bear returning home a failure, greeting a sea of disappointment that seems to come from the crystalline blue of his father's eyes. This daunting possibility -of having his one constant pillar look at him with disdain instead of the oh-so-familiar love- makes him want to run back to the Elvenking all the more.

In the midst of all these rushing thoughts, a small part of him preens at having both his father's and his king's trust to save Middle Earth and return home happy, safe and whole. Another portion of the elf is filled with worry- should he return home not bearing the weight of success, what would become of the ruler of Mirkwood? A strong and resilient elf, but still drained by the great forest for the magic to maintain its sustenance. He knows that should he flee to the comfort of Mirkwood now, Thranduil would most likely pick up his torch- perhaps barging into Barad-dûr himself to shield his son from the great vitriol of Arda. It would be so easy to do so, to simply let the brave and admirable ellon deal with his problems. The king has done so for centuries; dilemmas of his son always vanquished at the snap of a finger. But _this_ , this is one task Legolas forbids himself from burdening his father with. His mind, and ages of being around Mirkwood's beloved protector tell him that Thranduil would gladly lift the fears of Mordor from his shoulders. _He would not survive it_ , his logic whispers, and the prince banishes any possibility of asking aid from his father from his mind. Shame quickly takes its place. His father has done all for him- bandaging scraped knees and guiding arrows with steady, gentle hands. The left side of his father's bed was always open for him, and Legolas is sure that the elf leaves it open even now. He feels as if he does not deserve such generosity- challenging the regulations of the throne for Tauriel's simple curiosity and her two-day romance. He may not deserve it, but he truly needs it; needs his father's embrace and loud, echoing laughs. He stirs every morning expecting a caring and soft knock on his door until he remembers that there is no door that can portray such love on their travels. He expects a caress before he sleeps but receives none. He expects open arms every time a nightmare visits the doorstep of his dreams. Ease abandoned and kin far behind, the prince's yearning for home intensifies.

_The fatigue of the morning begins to disappear, and the sun spreads her rays over the branches. The tunic is much too large for little Legolas, and his father stares adoringly in bemusement. It falls down his short frame to his feet, and wide sleeves run past his fingertips to reach the ground. Legolas is swooped up into welcoming arms, spinning through the air in a circle that revolves around the smiles of both Greenwood's crown prince and its king. He lets out bubbles of laughter and whoops of joy, and the older ellon holding him to the ceiling grins. As soon as he is set down, the elfling leaps into his father's arms once more. Their blissful morning morphs into a blissful day, and Legolas keeps the tunic safely in his grasp as he sleeps that night._

_They are about to depart. The Fellowship of The Ring is formed, and the elf is a few minutes away from a daunting quest that may come to show him the horrors that plague his father on the worst of nights. Legolas is alone, apart from his friends of the guard and his faithful caretaker Galion. The towering figure of the Elvenking is also not by his side- the scent of sandalwood and bergamot lacking from the air, a sense of security nowhere in his heart. Legolas dons the tunic- it fits._

It seems as if part of Legolas is missing, and guilt almost floods his mind for thinking of his family before Gandalf, but he can spare the grey wizard no such thought. He only thinks of his father- of seasonal crowns and soft smiles, and of robes that are too big and warm nights under cloaks and stars. Greenleaf envisions his father's might, and conviction takes root in his despair. He will, one way or another, aid in the destruction of the One Ring. Tales of his valour will be sung and relayed back to his waiting king and kingdom, who will rejoice at his courage. Stories will be spun of the fellowship's victory in dire times, and his father will retell them at every banquet and in every hall- expression unmarred by the marks of war and brightened by the heroics of his precious _ionneg_. And his father will be free- free of the darkness that the wood keeps passing onto him, and free to rule over his people without distress. The thought alone of the wood's majestic guardian -joyful and at peace, as he was before the sickness blanketed Mirkwood- sends a jolt of renewed vigour through Legolas. He will be a warrior- fighting both for peace in Middle Earth and for the elf he respects over all. When Aragorn bids him to stand and help his companions on their feet, he does so. At the thought of his father, Legolas is standing once more.


End file.
